Page 40 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

"Thanks," I reply, adjusting my concealed holster and shifting my stool slightly. Now I can pretend to watch the soccer game that's playing and still have a view of Londyn's booth in the mirror.

She laughs at something her date says, but it's different from the unreserved laughter I saw through the surveillance feed when she was talking to her friend. This laugh is restrained and barely lifts her cheeks. She's performing.

I sigh. Why am I even noticing this shit?

I take a deliberate bite of a provolone cube, trying to drown my inappropriate thoughts in cheese. I'm going beyond my job duties here. I pulled strings to get her the booth she wanted. I'm sizing up her date like auditioning for the role of jealous boyfriend.

If Mike knew the direction of my thoughts, he'd drag my ass out of here so fast my boots would leave skid marks.

But seeing her comfortable, seeing that small relief in her posture when she sat down, gives me a satisfaction I haven't felt in a long time. The simple pleasure of making someone feel better.

That's all this is. Professional pride.

I watch another couple across the restaurant. They're middle-aged with a comfortable silence between them, sharing a tiramisu without needing to discuss who gets which bite. They've got a flow down from years, maybe decades, together. They share a quiet certainty that their significant other will always be there, no matter what.

Wonder what that feels like.

I sip my virgin drink and then stab an olive, savoring the tartness. I'm wondering too much lately. Like what happens after this job. Another year of hopping on planes? More empty hotel rooms in countries where I don't speak the language?

At least I haven't fucked anything up so far this week. Only three more weeks to go, which is plenty of time for my instincts to fail me again.

Movement draws my attention back to Londyn's table. Her date has shifted closer to her in their booth, his arm now stretched across the back of the seat behind her. Classic move but telegraphed like a novice boxer's right hook.

Londyn's entire body stiffens, and she inches away to create space between them. Her lips move, and even though I'm rusty with lipreading, I catch the gist of what she says:"Sorry, I need some fucking breathing room, loser."

Okay. She didn't curse or call him names. But she did ask for space.

To his credit, her date immediately withdraws his arm, nodding with what seems like genuine understanding. Good. Because if this guy ignored her boundaries, I'd have to intervene.

That would definitely blow my cover.

The evening drags on, and I watch it unfold through the mirror, sipping my sugary mock drink while Londyn and her date work through appetizers, entrées, and a shared cannoli dessert.

Professional distance. That's what I'm maintaining. Just a bodyguard doing his job. Though my hands are tired from gripping my glass and utensils too hard.

When her date signals for the check, I drain the last of my second virgin mojito and flag down the bartender. Time to move.

"Everything alright with your meal?" he asks, collecting my empty plate.

"Perfect. Just need the check, please."

I've already settled my bill and retrieved my card by the time Londyn's date is calculating how much he'll tip. I slip out ahead of them, moving to the sneaker shop I looked at earlier. The same bored employee glances up. Those raised brows and frown say he recognizes me. Great, now he thinks I'm some indecisive sneaker fetishist.

"Everything been good?" I say to Mike.

"Yup. Quiet night." His voice crackles in my ear. "Nothing strange."

"When they leave, stay across the street and I'll follow behind Londyn."

"Got it."

I pretend to examine a pair of neon green high-tops while watching Londyn and her date exit the restaurant. They pause outside. Her date stands too close, so Londyn creates space between them with subtle shifts of her body. Body language doesn't lie. Her bouncing knee, that flat palm against herstomach, the zigzag line of her spine—she's ready for this night to end.

Her date leans in for a hug. Londyn sidesteps him smoothly. Even from this distance, I can see the effort it takes to maintain her smile.

I strain to listen.

"Maybe we could see each other again next week?" her date asks, his voice carrying in the warm evening air.

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